don't turn out the lights
by finaljoy
Summary: He had a lot of names. Bucky, James, soldier, gun for the mob, crazy, killer. But the one he liked best was 'winter', because nothing touched him, nothing hurt him. He was winter. Deadly, deadly winter. (serial killer au)


_AN This beautiful monstrosity is something I've been thinking about for a while. It is so dark and twisted and awful, but it is one thousand percent about Bucky and his sense of identity and gets into all of the big bad nasty ugly awful that could be his life. It started way back when with the Winter Solider Theme, and only became stronger when I listened to "Killer" by the Hoosiers._

 _also this is why we procrastinate it is so the canon can give you gifts like mobsters so you don't have to make up your own (I'm borrowing all of two and a half characters from Daredevil just trust me)._

 _Written for the Beta Branch Halloween challenge (shout out to my girl Bess for soldiering on through all of this story's mess)._

* * *

They called him a soldier because he took orders and he killed men without question. But he wasn't a _soldier_. He thought a little too much for that, but quietly, quietly, quietly. He wasn't a soldier.

He wasn't quite sure _what_ he was. He had a lot of names. The one he liked best was 'Bucky'. No one was on the watch for a 'Bucky'. It was kind and honest and charming in a way that was utterly disarming, plus Steve had given it to him. Another he liked was 'James'. It was a little more crisp, a little more sleek, a little more deadly, hinting at the cold he held in his bones.

The way he thought of himself, though, was 'winter'.

On the inside, he was ice. He joked and laughed and handed out bright smiles, but underneath he was hiemal. Nothing touched him, nothing hurt him. He was winter. Deadly, deadly winter.

* * *

The woman turned on her shower. He could see her flash back and forth from where he was hiding, going from bathroom to bedroom, letting the water warm up before she got in. She was the sister of a businessman that wasn't playing nice, and she was about to become an example.

Her phone rang. He clenched his teeth, hand tightening on the knife handle. His skin was crawling with the need to get this done.

"Hello? Oh, hi Mom." The woman nodded as she walked past again, phone pressed against her shoulder. "Mm-hm…yeah, that's what I told Patrick."

Her reflection checked the water, then began removing her pants.

"Yep…actually, Mom, I'm about to hop in the shower…yeah, no, I'll call you back later. Okay, bye."

He crept toward the mouth of the closet as she hung up, his heartbeat very slow. Everything seemed to settle in these moments when he slunk out of the dark, the world yawning for an endless moment.

She didn't hear him, he knew that. But maybe she caught sight of him, appearing from the shadows with a knife. She turned, horror stretching her face before any sound came out. She tried to hit him with her metal soap dish and then everything went very, very fast.

The woman's breath was loud when he knocked her arm aside, got in close, dazed her with a blow to her head. The sting in his hand made his blood jump and she tried hitting him, tried screaming but he clamped his arms down and stuffed a rag in her mouth and felt her fight his ice as she tried to stop him.

In the end, she was stabbed four times. It wasn't as precise as he liked, because she had fought him, but he didn't really mind because she had sent a sharp buzz through his bones and it was fun it was risky it was a thrill.

Her blood stained his cuffs and smudged his collar, Death smearing her lipstick across him in a seductive _'come hither'._ He could feel the smile on his face as he panted and wiped a bit of red off his face, heady from the rush of winning. He didn't care what else he came across in life, nothing made him feel as alive as when he pressed up against death.

The woman watched him as he rinsed off his hands and took a picture. It was the hate mixing with the fear in her eyes that drew his attention, as with everyone before her. She struggled to reel in her last breaths as he walked over and turned off the shower.

Waste not.

* * *

"James, close the window, it's cold," Natasha told him. He glanced over at her, her eyes closed as she sprawled across the bed.

"No one'd think you were Russian, you keep talking like that." She cracked open an eye and made a face. Natasha could say a thousand things with one look.

"I'm Russian, not made of ice," she grumbled, then closed her eyes again. Her bright hair stood out even in the dark of the room, a vague, red smudge against the black heap of the bed.

He closed the window, blocking out the snowy breeze. He walked over to the bed and sat beside her. Natasha took his hand, running the pads of her fingers over the veins and tendons under his skin.

"You have blood under your fingernails," she noted.

"How can you see that in the dark?" he asked, pulling his hand away.

"Who was it?" she asked, settling back into the pillows. He shrugged. It was always important to Natasha, the names of the people she put a bullet into. She was systematic and careful, discovering who these people were before she killed them. He wasn't like that. They sent Natasha to make people disappear. They sent him to deliver a message.

"A warning to people who won't behave."

"James."

"Kathy Fallow."

"As in Clark Fallow?" she asked, straightening. "The CFO Vladimir was looking to get in bed with?"

"He's already _in_ bed with him," James scoffed. "Fallow just wouldn't play nice."

Natasha settled back against the pillows. "I didn't know he wanted you to take care of him."

"Are you disappointed Vladimir didn't ask you?"

"No," she said, tilting her head as she watched the ceiling. Her fingers traced over his arm, smooth and soft. "This was supposed to be quiet, though. They gave you the job, but they'll still give you the blame if there's trouble. You don't want the Bratva against you."

Natasha, as an actual member of the mob, would not take James' side if anything happened. He wasn't especially bothered. She had made her loyalties clear long before he started taking her clothes off.

James ran his hand over her hair. "Don't worry about them. The dear Captain Barinov loves me, thinks I'm an _artist_ or something."

"He thinks you're crazy."

He grinned at her, all wolf teeth and bad intent. "That's fair."

"You really shouldn't goad Vladimir and his brother, though," Natasha said, the words breaking against his arm.

"I'll never get into a fight I can't win."

Natasha opened her eyes as if to say that was a promise he could never keep.

* * *

"Hey, Bucky, c'mere. I need to move the bookcase to get my sketchpad." Steve's voice floated into the kitchen where Bucky was pouring a drink.

"Yeah, gimme a sec."

He walked out to find Steve braced against the side of the bookshelf, waiting for him to come over and help.

"How did your sketchbook fall back there?" he asked, crouching down to lift his side. "The thing's practically glued to your hand."

"Until it's behind the tv. Okay, pull it forward."

Bucky grinned at Steve, feeling light and comfortable. He loved being with him, loved how Steve managed to be so serious and courteous to everyone, but still managed to be the embodiment of the sun. Being with Steve made Bucky happy in a way that did not at all involve the small trophy pictures on his phone of blood and death.

* * *

"Barnes, come here," Anatoly waved him over to where both Ranskahov brothers were standing. They were always tense, like pit bulls on chains.

"Yes?" He stopped before them, calm and steady and ready to go where they pointed. Vladimir was posturing for him, showing his dominance over what he thought was an animal. The man would probably feel different if he knew James wasn't an animal but was actually brutal and graceless winter.

"We have job for you." Vladimir pushed a folder into James' chest. "This one is different. You make it quiet."

"Natasha normally does this kind of work," he said, looking up from the first page. He didn't want to know this person's face if he couldn't keep it.

"Natasha is busy," Anatoly half-growled. Vladimir gave James a glare as he closed the folder.

"You send me in to make people _listen,_ " James said, grinding the words in Vladimir's face. "What _use_ am I if you're not going to let me do my job?"

"Your job is what we give," Vladimir snarled, barring his teeth. James tilted back his head and narrowed his eyes.

Anatoly pushed back his brother, hissing in Russian, " _Don't fight with him. In a quiet pond, devils dwell."_

 _"He's no devil, he's a rabid dog that needs to know his place."_

 _"And he'll bite your hand if you don't step back,"_ James said quietly, the Russian slush dripping from his tongue. Vladimir tightened his jaw and stepped closer.

 _"What, you think that because you sleep with Natasha and she teaches you some of our language that makes you impressive? You make a mess when you kill, you think that makes you dangerous? You are scraps from this garbage heap of a city, and you are exactly what we make you. It doesn't matter that Barinov thinks you're the sharpest shit in the fucking place. You are_ nothing _here."_

James didn't say anything, just watched Vladimir. He was right and yet wrong. Yes, the Bratva had sculpted him into a contract killer. But they could _never_ claim making him what he was. The monster in his bones had been coaxed out, teased into something big and vicious. The cold, however, had always been there. That had been waiting quietly for someone to let hell loose.

* * *

The woman was screaming she was screaming through his hand trying to bite him to get him to let her go so he stabbed her and he stabbed her and he made her be fucking _quiet_ because he wasn't going to let her ruin this and get him caught.

He crouched down beside her as she lost her strength, scared and alone with her little, little tears slicking down her cheeks. She clawed at his face and tried to get him away, but there was already blood leaking into her lungs and decorating her mouth pink with foam. He hissed as her hand raked across his cheek. He grabbed her wrist, ready to break it ready to punish her ready to make her feel ashamed of touching him like that. He could feel her bruise as it blossomed sad purple black against his palm.

No, he didn't want to break her. That was never the point, they weren't supposed to be _broken._

He felt a little calmer with her blood on his skin, the gentle _shhhh, shhhhhhhhh_ telling him to relax. He took a few deep breaths, centering himself as she tried to hold on, breaths jerky from blood.

Killing this woman hadn't been part of the plan. He would have been satisfied if he had been allowed to kill that other person, the Ranskahov's target, the tall man that had made a bit too much trouble for their operation. But no, it had to be _quiet_ , it had to be drab and washed away down the drain with a few gallons of acid. Now he had to make up for it, which was annoying at best.

He rested his forehead against the back of her hand. Her fingers were lovely, the nails unpainted but delicately shaped.

Taking them off would ruin the neat edges of her body against the sleek chaos of the red, but she had scratched his face and had his skin beneath her nails. He'd never risk his own hide over the imagery of hers.

He ran a finger over her cheek as she watched him, then rested her hand on the ground and positioned his knife. She would still look lovely with the blood staining her sleek blonde hair.

* * *

The café was full of chatter, almost too loud to talk in. Steve liked it, though, liked the natural feel of the worn brickwork and the live plants spreading across every shelf and corner. Even now he kept glancing around, sealing away the details of people around him.

"How's the new workout routine going?" Bucky asked Steve. He glanced around from where he had been studying a mother and her three children a few tables away.

"The workout routine? Good, yeah, it's good. The only time I have to do it is in the morning, though," he said, grimacing slightly.

"That's avoidable," Bucky teased, taking a bite out of his BLT.

"Okay, _no,_ I can't cut out anything with the community," Steve said. "I _like_ working at soup kitchens and stuff."

" _Heaven forbid_ you limit your paint time, either," Bucky snickered, tossing a napkin at Steve.

"I have the gallery opening coming up! You know it's crazy right now."

"Don't you need to clear those paintings months in advance?"

"Yeah," Steve said, running his thumb along the side of his glass, "but I've really _got_ something with this one. Have I shown it to you?"

"The one with the soldier in the park?" Bucky asked. Steve adored scenes set in the forties. They all were simple and honest, a reflection Steve's bright, guileless nature.

"Mm-hm, that one. It just…feels _really good."_

"I'm sure you'll do great."

"Y'know, on the topic of community stuff, I was thinking about helping set up the summer picnic this year."

"When's that? End of July?"

"Yeah. We were thinking about making it kind of like a fair, you know, with stands and games for more than just our neighborhood."

Bucky grinned at Steve, irrationally proud of him and his shiny love of people. Empathy and compassion felt right on him, made the world seem a little brighter for it. Steve was the warm summer, soldiering on despite all of the bad winter dragged in.

"If you need a hand, I'm your guy."

"Of course," Steve said, smiling at him across the table. "I never doubted you were for a second."

* * *

Natasha cleaned her gun at the table while he sat on the counter, watching her work. She had killer's hands, but they were so different from his own. She was the awe inspiring angel of death, whereas he was brutality and savagery. That was her own sort of coldness—she learned their names and their lives, yet didn't care about her targets. They bowed beneath the austerity of her bullets, impersonal from first to last. He marveled over those hands and how they didn't need to dig into the heart and soul of the people she killed.

A line creased her forehead as she cleaned her gun, though, thwarting her normally impassive veneer.

"What is it?" he asked. She shook her head, eyes unfocused.

"Barinov, he…is changing things."

"Oh?" James straightened. "How's he doing that?"

"He makes it feel like a business," she said, words turning heavy and bitter. "The old way, we were a family, truly Bratva, a brotherhood. The men you worked with were your brothers, the women your sisters."

"And now?"

"Now you are thrown in the river for getting in the way." She clicked the magazine in place, then set the gun down on the table.

James ran his eyes over her, analyzing skin and bone and blood. He didn't quite understand Natasha's unhappiness; he was nothing but an eccentric hired gun, beneath affecting mob politics. This, however much she may have hidden it, was her life and she was fiercely protective of it.

"Are you going to be thrown in the river?"

Natasha looked at him, and for a moment he thought she saw too much, her clever eyes reaching past his masks and receiving a touch of frost bite. "No. I'm too smart for that."

They stared at each other for a moment, and James actually found himself wondering about what would happen if she balked. Would he chase after her? He'd never imagined what a match between death's angel and winter would be like.

"You really are just a soldier, aren't you?" she asked. "Taking orders, not feeling or caring when you aren't supposed to."

"I'm not a soldier," he said, voice even, palms resting on the counter, muscles relaxed. It would be interesting to see if she could shoot him before he wrestled her to the ground.

"No, I suppose you're not."

He slid off the counter and padded toward her. The linoleum was cool against the bottoms of his feet. James stopped before her and they spent another long moment looking at each other.

He put his hand on her hair, allowing Natasha to press her face into his stomach and wrap her arms around his hips.

"Don't get into this war," she murmured, turning her head to rest her cheek against his shirt. "I feel it coming, James, and you don't want to get involved."

"I told you, I'm not a soldier."

"Soldiers aren't the only ones that fight, James."

He ran his thumb across her hair and thought about that.

* * *

"Who are we waiting for?" James huffed, leaning back in the shade. Of all the places in the park, they had chosen to stand away from any sort of shelter. It was barely May and yet the sun had decided to show itself. He was hot and annoyed and wanted to leave.

"Someone I think you'll find helpful. He's a detective."

"Yours or the mob's?"

Natasha gave him a wolfish smile. "Mine."

James tilted his head in agreement. That he _could_ work with.

A man pulled himself from the walking trail and wandered toward them. He looked unexceptional, but most of the best people did. He had a mild expression and bright blue eyes.

"Natasha, hey," he said easily, eyes still on James.

"Clint, hello." She kissed his cheek, then stepped back. "Clint Barton, James Barnes."

"So you're work associates, then?" Clint asked, glancing around the park. He seemed relaxed enough, but James was certain this man was on alert.

"Yes, we work together. And you?"

"She owed me a debt, then I owed her one, back and forth until we stopped keeping track."

" _You_ may have," Natasha said with a smirk.

Clint shrugged. "You'll never cash in."

James glanced at Natasha, surprised at how _warm_ she was. This wasn't the woman he knew.

"Anyways," Clint said, "something's turned up you'll wanna pounce on." He turned to resume walking as he spoke, James and Natasha following. "They haven't done anything yet, but the police want to make a move on Abrahamovich."

James raised an eyebrow. Abrahamovich was another captain in the Bratva, but his territory ended firmly before New York.

"A snitch came out of the woodwork. Apparently your boy was having some fun in Harlem and his step-and-fetch-it had enough."

"And you're telling us because…?"

"I might owe Natasha one," Clint said, giving James a hard look. Not hostile, merely hard. It was like Clint's very soul was carved of granite, the same way James' was made of ice. "Whatever you choose to do with it is your own deal."

" _The_ pakhan _will be upset to hear Abrahamovich was so careless,_ " James said in Russian. Natasha tilted her head.

" _But Barinov will love it. Any chance to bring his own people up higher is something he'll take."_

 _"Is he planning something?"_

" _He's always planning something. The old ways are dead."_

James cast a glance toward Clint, who was minding his own business as they spoke. Either he didn't understand Russian or he didn't care.

"You were right," James told Natasha as he began to walk away. "I do think he's useful."

* * *

Abrahamovich was being punished for his carelessness, but not by the law. The _pakhan_ had come down hard, and of course Barinov had leaped at the chance. He passed the work down to the Ranskahovs, who then ordered to have James deal with it. But as Natasha said, things had changed. Barinov wanted him to deal with the snitch, not by killing him and warning all others from doing the same, but by threatening his lawyer. The turncoat was to be saved for a later day. Barinov sent his best weapon to do…nothing.

The more James reviewed the details of the job, the more his stomach turned and his teeth ground and the more angry he became, because this was a flawless chance to feel the thrill of power, and yet it was being stolen once again. He wasn't going to let it happen one more time.

His phone rang, sending him to his feet.

"Hello?"

"Hey, how's it going?"

"Alright, Steve," he said, shrugging. "Work's getting crazy, but nothing I can't handle."

"I told ya, you should've been your own boss," Steve laughed. "Working as the representative of a music company just doesn't _feel_ like you, y'know?"

"Hey, it's this job that got you in touch with your agent."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But I want to see you do something you really love."

Bucky cocked his head. He sometimes toyed with the idea of telling Steve, of showing him the neat collection of people on his phone, the victories and bloody triumphs he'd taken in the name of the mob but in the spirit of gratification. Then he checked himself. The very thought of Steve finding out and seeing him dark and lethal and covered in another person's blood made his stomach wrench. What he had with Steve was too precious to reveal what hid under Bucky's warm smile.

"And you think being my own boss will help that?" Bucky asked, glancing over the folder detailing the lawyer. He was handsome, pale with dark hair and blood red glasses. It would have been interesting to go after a blind man. He wondered if the lawyer would have fought more or less than a normal person.

"Yeah, sure. You've got the discipline for it."

He nodded, tracing the edge of the photo. This lawyer wasn't the real problem, not at all.

"I'll think about that," Bucky said, closing the folder.

* * *

He could be so very _quiet._ He could slink through a sleeping house and never disturb a soul, but today he was waiting nice and slow, not rushing a thing. He was doing this for himself, no paycheck or superiors involved.

His mouth curled into a giddy smile, making his knife blade fog against as his breath. He closed his eyes, listening to the house breathe. The man would be home any moment, and then—

The front door opened and he felt himself relax. The man stumbled down the hall, stopped in the bathroom, then fell on the bed. He watched the mattress bounce against the man's weight, then sag down. A soft sigh, the little lull until he slid himself past the bedframe, the knife steady in his hand, the edge of the covers brushing his face, his hand braced against the mattress and he was sliding free.

He felt excitement tumbling through him before he grabbed the pillow to muffle the man's scream, and then they were fighting and he was on top of him the knife was being pushed away and it cut his face cut his cold gave him heat and hellfire and power. He could hear his laugh as the man hit him, threw him off, scrambled for a gun but that was okay, blood was rushing through his ears, he was feral he was mighty he was death come early come to make this man scream. The knife sank into the man's hand and there was a scream quickly smothered and then the knife was going in again, singing in the dark, making his heart leap down up down up and in out in out blade flashing blood getting all over his hands because this was fun this was easy this was his only thrill.

The man struggled, a wounded bull fighting to stay alive, to find safety. There wasn't any. There was blood on his hands and cheek and tongue, harsh copper waking up the last little bit of monster he'd been biting back.

He felt good, he felt heady, he felt like a god reigning over the earth. He rocked back on his heels, having forgotten what it felt like to do this for himself. He wiped his mouth with the unbloody part of his sleeve, tasting the power in his smile.

The man still had fear and hate on his face, even in death. Blood stained the carpet and was smeared across the bed.

He pulled out his phone and took a picture.

* * *

Natasha seemed unsurprised to find him washing his hands in her kitchen. He still felt the buzz in his fingertips from killing the snitch. The man had fought more than expected, aggressive and feisty to keep his life. That had been a nice surprise. Normally, cowards were weak all the way to the end.

"What's got you so happy?" she asked, dropping her bag on the table.

"Nothing much," he dismissed. He felt her watching him, analyzing the tilt of his shoulders, the self-satisfied smile as he dried his hands.

"You took care of Barinov's job."

"Sure," he said, shrugging.

Natasha nodded and leaned against the table, trying to act nonchalant. "I didn't think you'd do it so soon."

"Not much one for waiting."

"I thought Barinov had a timeline. You probably should have waited longer, James."

He sighed, resting his hands against the counter. Lately, he was squaring up against her more and more, his eyes turning cold, jagged smile in place, shoulders spread wide to show he wasn't afraid of her.

Natasha dropped into another subject, slipping around the conflict until there was something worth pushing. She wasn't a solider, either. She was too smart to march dumbly into battle, hammering her way to victory. Her weapons were kisses and cyanide in the dark, giving him the thrill of putting his mouth on death every time he put his lips to hers.

"How is the gallery coming?" she asked.

"Good. Opens in less than a month."

"And you'll be going to it? The opening?"

"Yes," he said, moving toward her as they spoke. She nailed him with her gaze as he stopped before her, blue-green and clear and steady. People said they were cold. He had believed that, once.

He rested his forehead against hers, feeling her eyelashes against his cheek.

"There is going to be trouble," she murmured. "Abrahamovich is not going to like being in Barinov's debt."

"Barinov won't act until it's convenient."

"Who knows what goes on in that man's head. He's willing to watch the world fall apart for fun."

He was probably close enough for Natasha to feel the air move as he smiled. It was a sentiment he could appreciate.

"It won't affect me. I'm a hired killer."

"He thinks of you as his pet."

"That's his mistake," James said, pressing a kiss against her mouth.

Natasha let him push her into the table, her hands settling on his hips. She was playing sweet now, but he could still taste the danger on her tongue.

He lifted her to sit on the table, her legs going around his waist, his heart speeding, the familiar buzz coming back to his hands as they crept toward the bottom of her shirt. Her hands were in his hair, ensuring that his mouth stayed pressed against her skin. She shuddered as he touched her sides, but didn't stop him until he almost had her shirt off.

"I can't do this right now," she said, turning her face away. "I was supposed to be grabbing lunch. I have to meet with some of the bodyguards."

"Okay, get your lunch, then," he mumbled, kissing her ear and moving to her neck. She snorted, then sighed.

"They'll probably mention that lawyer of yours," she noted.

"Lawyer?"

"The one you took care of."

"I didn't do anything to the lawyer."

"What?"

James pulled away from her neck. Natasha was trying to school her face, but her eyes were wide with shock. Her hands had gone from running through his hair and were now holding his face so he couldn't move away.

"I didn't touch the lawyer. What would that do? The snitch would have found another if he was determined. Barinov should have dealt with him the same way as always, old ways or not."

"You killed Lewis Kimpel?"

So that was his name.

"Yes."

Natasha moved her hands from his face to his shoulders. He kept his gaze steady, watching her, watching her, watching her. She didn't seem ready to run, yet her voice had turned a little higher, unsettled by his revelation. He boxed her in anyways, staying pressed close, hands moving from her hips to the table.

"Barinov told you to do the lawyer."

"That was a waste of time."

"Why do you care?" she asked, frowning. There was no accusation, only hard curiosity. "You're not part of the Bratva, you're happy as long as you get to do your job."

She'd never acknowledged that he killed for fun before.

"Not really. I was happy to do what I want."

"That was dangerous, James," she said quietly, still not caring that he had her trapped. "I told you, Barinov won't play how you're expecting. There's going to be no protection for you. You're not a part of us, you've no one to fall back on."

"I can take care of myself."

"I don't think you can. Barinov, he's…James, you don't understand _._ He has _no mercy._ "

"I've never asked for mercy," he bit out, hostile to the thought of being subject to someone else's will.

"But you might need it. He's going to find another you and then you'll be put in the ground." Natasha had genuine worry in her eyes when she spoke.

"Something's changed about you," he murmured, tilting his head. She wasn't harsh anymore. That warmth he had felt in the park when they met Clint was back, spilling out in waves of concern.

Natasha looked away, hands dropping. "I don't think it's me. It's this place, they—it's not what I want anymore."

James considered her. She wasn't going to fight him over this. He shifted back, freeing her to do what she wanted now there was no threat.

"So here's some advice," he said, pulling her hand back up to his face. "Stop playing nice and go after what you really want."

"Is that what you're doing?" she asked, gaze careful as he leaned into her touch.

"Yep. And I'm just getting started."

James kissed Natasha again, and this time he was certain she tasted ice.

* * *

The gallery was beautiful. It was full of big open space, pristine and waiting for Steve's art to make it even better. Bucky felt himself smiling at the thought of the world finally stopping to notice the wonder he had seen all along.

"Bucky, good, you're here," Steve called. He looked excited and nervous, his grin slipping out despite the attempts to appear professional.

" _This_ is your gallery?" Bucky asked. "No, there's gotta be a mistake, who'd give a punk from Brooklyn something so nice?"

"Jerk," Steve said, giving Bucky a playful shove. He gazed at the empty gallery, eyes bright. "It's really amazing, though, isn't it? I mean, this place…never woulda thought I could do it as a kid."

"I don't believe that," Bucky said, shaking his head. "You've always been able to do anything you wanted."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Hey, Steve, I wanna check the timeline again." A man holding a clipboard appeared from around the corner. He was stocky with dark hair and a pair of sharp eyes.

"Oh, yeah, Bucky, this is Brock. He's been a _godsend_ , helping me arrange this whole thing. Brock, this is my best friend, Bucky."

"Bucky?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he held out his hand.

"James Barnes," he clarified, taking Brock's hand and giving it a solid shake.

* * *

Vladimir wasn't happy when James walked into the garage, arms folded, lips tight. When he saw James, he beckoned him over with a terse wave.

James followed Vladimir into his office, eyes sliding across the room. He could see bodyguards and enforcers standing around, eyeing him as other lesser workers tended to the taxis. James stalked into Vladimir's office.

"You didn't kill the lawyer," Vladimir said bluntly, framed by his big, imposing windows. James watched him impassively. They were past the point of pretending to care about rank and decorum. Vladimir knew what he wanted to do to James and he'd do it.

"It was a stupid idea for us to do nothing to such a threat."

"'Us'? ' _Us'_? When did you get pulled into the Bratva? When did you turn into more than hired gun?" Vladimir's face was unreadable, grim yet so, so clever. He would go places, if his arrogance didn't get him first.

Vladimir watched him for a long moment, long enough for James to form a plan (cut out his throat act normal walk out be fine), then another (cut his throat use his body as a shield and then risk going through the window), then one more (stand still be good listen to what he has to say then work out the rest). Vladimir sighed through his nose and walked behind his desk.

"Where's Anatoly?" James asked, irritated by the silence.

"Cleaning up your shit pile. Barinov is pissed."

"His plan was stupid."

"You left blood everywhere and he was not prepared for cleanup."

"Since when do the Bratva care about _cleanup?"_

"Shut your mouth until I'm done," Vladimir snarled, shooting him a look. "You made it messy from inside. Barinov looks like idiot to the _pakhan_ because his dog does not obey orders."

"Then it was his mistake for thinking I'm on his leash."

Vladimir tilted his head, considering. "Abrahamovich is grateful. Wishes he could have helped deal with the snitch."

"Tell him thanks."

There was another tense moment, then Vladimir spoke. "Why kill that pig Kimpel? Why not lawyer?"

"If Kimpel caused problems for the Bratva, I wouldn't have a job," James said simply, making Vladimir scoff.

"Just do your work and we have no problems, yes? Now get out."

James turned on his heel and stalked away. Vladimir was smarter than he thought.

* * *

The sun was bright and hot and he was in a short sleeved shirt and shades and he was smiling and it was okay because Steve had asked him there and he loved Steve and he would always, always be there for him.

"Gosh, this is great," Steve said, beaming around at the fair. Just as he had hoped, it was like a carnival had unfolded across the park, music pumping through bright stalls and giggling children running around and having fun. Steve was guiding Bucky through the fair, pointing out the features he especially liked.

"Is it like you pictured?" Bucky asked.

"Yeah, totally. The music, the way the stalls are painted, it's perfect."

"I was worried there, with how much Fiona was fighting you on the decorations."

"Don't even get me _started_ on her," Steve said with an eye roll. "I almost had to bind and gag her to get them the way I wanted."

Steve really didn't need know that _he_ had almost bound and gagged Fiona to get Steve what he wanted.

"I'm happy for you," Bucky said, clapping Steve's shoulder.

Steve gave a shy half-grin. "I kinda thought it wouldn't work out, with both this and the gallery going. But Brock's been taking care of everything at the gallery, letting me focus on this. It's been so awesome being able to paint for fun."

"Brock? Has he been doing much more for your show?"

"Oh, yeah," Steve said, nodding. "He's been sorting out that last minute stuff, saving me from all sorts of headaches. I'm lucky I found him. Actually, I was wondering if you could help him? He needed someone a little more familiar with PR, and I thought…"

"No, sure, I can do that." Bucky gave Steve a smile, trying not to feel the jealous wintry creep up his stomach, trying not to show his distaste for this interloper that came into their life and tried to steal Steve away. Steve couldn't see that side of him, he couldn't see that, he couldn't.

"I can't wait for you to see it all," Steve said as they paused by a bouncy house. Bucky made his smile unstick. "It looks _so_ much better with everything mounted and not in my apartment, you have no idea."

"I'm really excited for you, seriously. You've been putting your soul into this," Bucky said, focusing on the sunshiney happiness pouring out of Steve, the warmth and light that Bucky awed over and got caught up in.

"Thanks. I can't wait for the opening next week, I mean—I've been saying it over and over, but I still can't believe it. It's going to be great."

Bucky nodded, an answer on his tongue as he glanced back at Steve. His gaze stumbled onto someone sitting a ways away from the edge of the fair, lounging on a bench and idly eating a bag of popcorn.

Clint. Clint, the crooked cop, the person Natasha had introduced him to, the thing that very much did not belong in this world of light and laughter.

Bucky's stomach constricted with dread. Clint looked casual enough, but his gut said that this was wrong, that Clint was out of place, that he was a little too invested in his newspaper to be natural. He had to do something.

"Hey, I thought I saw someone eating some hotdogs a while back," Bucky said, turning to Steve. "Were those real or was I imagining it?"

"No, there should be a hotdog stand," Steve said, glancing around as if the stall would appear behind them.

"Could you go grab me one? I just remembered I needed to make a quick call for work, but I'm starving."

"Yeah, no problem. Anything to drink?"

"Whatever you're having. Thanks."

Bucky smiled and pretended to reach for his phone as Steve disappeared into the crowd. Then he was stalking through the people, each step long and powerful and taking him to is prey. Clint didn't seem to notice him until he felt the knife blade to his side.

"A knife, really?" Clint asked, flipping the page of his paper. The tension in his shoulders belied his nonchalance.

"The fuck are you doing here?" he half-snarled, feeling raw and wounded and completely off balance. Clint wasn't supposed to be there. _No_ one was supposed to be there, none of this should have bled into Bucky, should have threatened Steve.

"Enjoying the fair."

"What does Natasha want?"

He was stupid. He was so incredibly _stupid._ He had trusted her with this one delicate, sensitive thing he had. He was an idiot and he never should have let himself be so _soft_ with her. He should have killed her when he had the chance.

"She's not spying on you, if that's what you're thinking."

"She's the only one who knew."

"Not anymore." James pressed the blade a little harder into Clint's side, feeling the fabric of his shirt give way beneath the edge. "Others know, alright? Natasha didn't give me details, only said to warn you."

"So you come _here?_ "

"You wouldn't have listened otherwise."

"I could cut you open and walk away before anyone realizes what happened," James said, deadly quiet. He could feel himself slipping, sliding out of one mind and into another, the frost of winter hardening his soft places and making him smart.

"You won't do that."

He didn't say anything as Clint turned to look at him for the first time. Clint must have seen the question in his eyes because he tilted his head to the side, ever so slightly.

"Steve's right there."

Horror punched through him again, hollowing his insides and disorienting him all at once. Steve. Steve was there. He couldn't do this, he didn't know how to do this. Steve couldn't see, couldn't know, couldn't think he was anything other than light, easy going, friendly Bucky. He could not find out.

"If you say anything, they're only going to find pieces of you."

"I believe that."

"Tell Natasha I'm coming for her."

"Will do. But she's not the issue," he said, easing to his feet and away from the knife.

Bucky was walking toward Steve with a big smile on his face before he noticed Clint or the knife.

* * *

He should have seen it. He should have been paying attention as he walked into Brock's apartment to avoid the baton flying toward him. Instead, it clipped his shoulder. He was getting lazy.

He ducked and staggered back, mind spinning but his body settled into its natural hunt lunge kick stab kill kill kill posture. Brock swung again, keeping him off balance with each swing stab pivot parry kick kick that one made contact but he was up. He slammed his elbow into Brock's ribs and there was a crack and Brock let out a noise and was falling back. This was deadly fun but also angry fun but also just wrath wrath wrath pouring out of his skin, not because this man dared to slink into his life to murder him but because he had used Steve to do it.

Brock swung threw a book at his head but he had a lamp and it smashed off Brock's forearm then he was slammed into the wall and then Brock was pinned he was basically dead but first Bucky had something to say and it was _you're my next example_ and then the knife in Brock's chest it was out it was in out in out breaths coming fast filling his lungs but Brock's lungs were all blood and torn tissue and then he was dead on his carpet spread flat shock and pain in the killer's killed eyes.

He panted as Brock slumped to the floor, nursing the heavy bruise on his arm, jaw gritting as the facts washed over him. Brock's wallet was in his pocket and it said _Brock Rumlow_ but there was nothing else no card no tattoo no sign marking him as Bratva. He was, though. Barinov's spiteful hand was reaching its way where it did not belong.

And then he realized that this was truly the beginning or maybe the ungainly middle but it sure as hell was not the end because he was alive and he may have been winter but he was going to rain an almighty hellfire down on every single person who had been involved.

They really shouldn't have tried to go through Steve.

* * *

He could still see the heady light of the burning car as he brushed through the darkness. Barinov had decided to play dirty, but he had never really anticipated what that meant. He had spent the day systematically burning through Barinov's chain of command, from all of the bodyguards to the higher level warriors that had given Rumlow the order to seep into his life and threaten Steve.

This type of killing had lost its thrill. He had turned in on himself, becoming so cold that it began to burn, hollowing him out and leaving nothing but hoarfrost. There was no excitement in hacking low level informants apart or setting a man's house on fire as he slept. There was nothing to the rapid fire devastation he wrought before someone could catch up and plant a bullet in his head. There was nothing but crystallized wrath at the utter invasion that had been Barinov's retaliation.

He had nothing left. After he turned Barinov's network to ashes, maybe he'd melt back into shadows, become a ghost and find a new name and a new face and a new friendly smile to hide behind.

The only problem was that it still left Steve.

* * *

Natasha was home when he came for her. It took once glimpse of her gun and then he was on top of her. She let herself be knocked to the ground and thrown into a hold, gun flying aside as her hands reflexively went to his arm as he crushed her neck. He tightened his grip, hating her for betraying him, for dragging Clint the outsider into his quiet, precious secret, for having lied so soft and sweet to his face. She was far colder than he'd ever thought.

Natasha let go on his arm, holding her hands up in the air in a show of submission. He squeezed harder, wanting to tear the life from her liar's bones as soon as possible, but she set her hands down at her sides, completely giving in. He loosened his grip just a touch, allowing Natasha to yank in a breath.

" _James,_ " she whispered, " _James,_ please, stop this."

"You lied to me, Natasha," he said, and he sounded surprisingly calm. "You know, I knew you would always side with the Bratva, but you _promised_ to keep Steve secret and now that's all shit. So I'm going to turn your brains to shit and spatter them on your wall."

He would use her weapon, but there would be none of her effortless grace to his kill. He would still have his brutal mess her blood smeared on him because that was what he wanted and that was what she deserved.

"James, I never—I didn't tell anyone else about Steve."

" _Then how did they know?_ " he snarled, jamming his arm against her neck again. She pushed at his arm, struggling for a moment before he let her speak.

"Barinov, he—I just found out he was following you. That was why he felt so safe, he had eyes on Steve and he—"

"Plays by new rules." The words felt cheap on his tongue. "Why should I not kill you right now?"

"Because you need friends."

"I don't need _anyone_ ," he snarled into her ear. " _No one,_ do you hear me?!"

"James, please."

He could feel her heart pounding heavy and scared against his arm and he felt nothing. Nothing. Not the least bit of excitement or power or triumph. Just rage. He let her go. She slipped out of his grasp the moment his hold loosened, scrambling back until was pressed the legs of her dining chairs.

"Tell me what you need to say," he growled, gun still situated on the easy target of her face

"I'm—Vladimir and Anatoly—"

"Can burn in hell. I'm going after them next."

" _No._ Vladimir wants Barinov out as much as you do. He wants him gone, wants his share of the work. He'll take you in, James, he'll keep you safe. The _pakhan_ isn't looking at you, all eyes are on Barinov and how he can't control the situation."

"So now you're Vladimir's _lapdog?_ "

"No," she said, dropping her eyes. "Now I'm giving you a message before I go. I've had enough. I can't do this any longer, I can't stay in the Bratva."

They sat on the floor for a long moment, both panting, both trying to find a way out that didn't end in a mistake and death.

"You _told_ ," James said, voice quieter in his disbelief. "You told Clint about Steve."

"Barinov was watching me," she said helplessly. "I couldn't go myself."

"You pushed me to do this," he told her. "I never wanted to kill someone I cared about."

"You don't care about me," Natasha said, a jagged smile on her face, finally calling back the old Natasha he had once known.

"I did, before. I used to love you."

"No, you didn't. You love _Steve._ I wasn't much of anything to you."

James stared at her, almost confused. She shook her head with an emptier smile.

"You're burning down the world for threatening him, but you're pointing a gun at me. You don't love me."

James stood up and left Natasha pressed against the chair legs, still trying to find her breath.

* * *

He felt rather than saw the SUV ease up to the curb beside him. He clenched his teeth and didn't change his gait, even when he heard Vladimir call to him in Russian.

" _Hey, shithead, get in the car._ "

He turned around. Vladimir was in the back seat of the car, scowling at him through the lowered window. They glared at each other for a few moments before Vladimir tipped his head back.

" _Get in._ "

James worked his jaw, then stalked over.

Anatoly sat beside Vladimir, the more practical of two dogs. They waited in silence as the SUV pulled away. He wasn't sure what to expect. If the Ranskahovs wanted him dead, he would have been gunned down the moment he was within sight. He should have been more careful. Going to Natasha's and then leaving her alive had been a mistake. He was getting sloppy, no, he wasn't sloppy, he made a mess sometimes but it was all for a point, all for the purpose of finally revealing to the world what he was under his skin. But he was also less and less certain of what that was.

" _Barinov wants your head on spike,_ " Vladimir said, eyes digging into James' chest. He didn't react.

" _It's lucky we found you first_ ," Anatoly added. James slid his gaze to him. Anatoly was far less interesting than his brother. If it had been Anatoly that called him over, James would have run (he _would_ have fought, would have gotten in the car and then cut Anatoly's face clean away, but then Vladimir would have come and personally torn his world apart and that was just not something he needed at the moment).

"I can deal with Barinov," James said in English, refusing to play their game.

" _You can deal with shit. You got messy and you left a trail. A little longer and Barinov will have you._ "

"Then I'd cut off his head before he could make a strike."

" _You are either stupid or idealist,_ " Anatoly noted, expression sour.

"I thought they both meant 'dead' in Russia."

" _True. But we're not in Russia,_ " Vladimir said, a smile growing on his face that could only be called 'wicked'. " _We're in America, the land of opportunity and a fresh start. We will make an allowance for you._ "

"Why?" James asked. Did Vladimir really want to take him in, after everything?

" _Because you're a good asset_ ," Anatoly said, smoothing his expression into something close to impassive. Clearly, this was Vladimir's idea. " _It's b_ _est to fight with the strongest soldiers._ "

"And keep enemies closer."

" _Of course,_ " Vladimir said. " _Barinov won't be a problem for much longer. No one will question you once you take our protection._ "

"And why would you think I won't do the same to you?"

" _I actually give two shits about paying attention to my people,_ " Vladimir said flatly. " _I know you're not my lapdog. Think about it,_ " he said, waving at the driver to stop.

"Fuck off," James said, pushing himself out of the car.

* * *

This whole thing was making him stupid. People knew, people were aware of Steve and how important he was and yet there Bucky was in Steve's apartment, sitting quietly at the dining room as Steve tried to deal with the fact that Rumlow was dead. The voice message he had left on Bucky's phone had been small and helpless, horror dripping from each word. And so, even though there were mobsters after him, even though he had blood slicking down every part of his skin, even though he was helpless and hopeless and beyond repair, he sat before Steve and tried to help his best friend cope.

Natasha's words kept rattling around in his head, about how Steve was the only thing he cared about. His mind was spinning and he wasn't sure what was true. He would have said she was wrong. But Natasha had seen it, and Rumlow had seen it, and Clint and Barinov and who knew who else. All of his clever armor and lies and tricks weren't working anymore, and he didn't have any idea of what to do because this could not be solved through killing.

His rampage felt sour and out of place after the sweet ecstatic moments of dark and blood as he had murdered the snitch on his own terms. Nothing felt right anymore. He was on edge and uncertain, staring at each empty face on his phone even as he walked to Steve's door, trying to find answers.

"I still can't believe it. He was such a good guy, and they said he was…geez. They found him in his apartment pretty quick, so at least that's good," Steve muttered, hands curled protectively around a mug of tea (Steve didn't believe in alcohol and that was so innocent and wonderful, which only made Bucky feel all the more confused, because how could he delight in innocence when he was caked in death?). "Who would want to kill him?"

"I don't know. This place is messed up," Bucky agreed, because that was his duty, that was his job, that was his lie. "Will this affect the gallery opening?"

"No," Steve said, shaking his head. "No, the gallery's clear to open next week, but I—I don't think I can. Not when he helped me so much and now he's—it doesn't feel right."

" _No,_ " he said, leaning forward and feeling hot panic slip down his throat because he was _not_ going to let Rumlow disrupt Steve's life.

Steve stared at him, alarmed by his outburst.

"I mean, it's just…he was really excited about this, right? He would want you to be able to keep going," Bucky explained, irritation coating his tongue because he was beyond 'getting', he _was_ sloppy. He couldn't do this.

"Yeah...I guess you're right. Uhm…Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you, okay? You've seemed a little distracted since you walked in. I mean, maybe it's over Rumlow, but you…you okay?"

"I'm fine," he lied, because fine did not exist when he had to disappear. It was the only solution he could find and it raked against his skin, hot and painful because he didn't know how to exist without Steve nestled between his ribs. "Things have…it's been a little rough."

"Okay, then."

"Mind if I get some of that tea?"

"No problem. Peppermint's on the counter, but I have some other stuff in the cabinet."

Bucky pushed himself away from the table, away from the confusion, away from Steve. He couldn't leave him. But he had to, he could not break open his chest to show the devastating winter he had on the inside. Not to him.

He waited impatiently as his water heated, skin crawling at the grinding sound of the microwave. He needed to calm down. He needed to get out of there before Barinov's people came. He would have to cut out Barinov's heart if he wanted to make sure Steve would ever be safe, which was the first thing he was going to do before he left the city for good.

"Hey, Buck, you got a text message."

"From who?"

"I dunno, let me…" He heard Steve pick up his phone, quietly tapping in Bucky's password. The microwave dinged and Bucky gratefully grabbed the mug out, ignoring the burn of the porcelain against his palm. He thought he heard Steve say something, but when he glanced over Steve was quiet, staring at the phone.

"Who's the text from?"

Steve didn't respond at first, but when Bucky repeated the question he flinched. And then he saw in Steve's eyes. Horror, shock, confusion, _I know it all_ tumbling through his face. Bucky stayed still, holding the burning mug in his hand, waiting for Steve to speak.

"Buck…what…what is this? I don't…" He glanced down at the phone, then back up, then down again. James worked his jaw.

" _Holy shit,"_ Steve breathed, dropping the phone on the table like it was a snake. No no no no _this couldn't be happening._

"What is it?" His voice was too cold.

"What is— _what the fuck._ "

Steve pushed himself up from the table, and James' instincts said he should launch himself over and strangle him with the hand towel on the table but his stomach said _shhh wait stop listen_ and his head felt dizzy and confused because he had _never_ thought that about Steve. He couldn't hurt Steve. He loved Steve.

"Steve—"

" _No,_ don't you—the fuck is this?" he demanded, flinging his hand down toward the phone.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't know what I'm— _Bucky,_ you've got pictures of _dead people_ on your damn phone!" He grabbed the phone back up, thrusting it out to James. Sightless eyes, blood spattered face, the soft brown hair of the woman who had been talking to her mother before he crept out of her closet and killed her.

He could not talk his way out of this. Everything felt wrong, his lives were smashing in on each other and he couldn't stop it Steve knew Steve was there Steve was seeing his excitement and delight and depravity, and he _hated_ it.

"Steve, wait, just hold on—"

" _Hold on?!_ Bucky, look at this, there are—holy shit," he whispered, flipping through the mix of destruction and death and then Bucky and Steve and nice landscapes and then more death . "Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit _holy—_ "

Steve looked up at James, frozen.

"Brock."

He'd found the last picture, then.

"You—Brock was—you killed Brock?"

"Steve…"

" _Answer me, dammit!_ "

"Yes," he said, and his voice was again that deadly cold. He'd never wanted Steve to hear it.

"What—why? Why would you-?"

"He wasn't what he seemed."

"Like _you_?"

"I was taking care of you!" he snapped, angry now. "I was keeping you safe! He was going to kill you to get to me, he never was your _friend._ I was _saving_ you!"

" _No!_ Not like that, I never wanted to be saved like that! And how could you—he was helping me with my _gallery!_ "

"He was going to _kill_ you!"

"How do you know that, how do you know—I can't trust anything you say, what even—none of it was real?" he asked, and that hurt more than the burn on his palm or the bruise still on his shoulder or seeing Natasha's broken gaze as she prepared to crawl her way out of the filth alone. Steve didn't trust him.

He looked away. "You don't want to know why."

"Actually I do! _Actually_ , I want you to be fucking honest with me for once!"

"No, no you don't."

Steve stared at him, finally catching up to what was happening. "You're right, I don't. I know what to know about any of it. _Here,_ " he said, shoving the phone against Bucky's chest, "take— _this._ I don't want to know about _anything."_

"Steve, I never—"

"No, stop! I don't want to know about _this_ , or anything else you've done. I don't want to _know_ you."

"Steve, please…no, _Steve_ …"

Steve stared at him, eyes now dead because, like with everything else, he had taken his inhumanity and murdered Steve's light with it.

He was a monster.

"Get out, Bucky," Steve whispered, voice low and horrible. "I never want to have to look at you again."

* * *

He walked into Vladimir's office without knocking. None of the bodyguards stopped him, so he assumed Vladimir had been expecting him.

"Now see who's come," Vladimir said smugly, flicking his eyes up from where he sat at his desk. "Reconsider?"

"I'll do it."

"Good. Simple rules, then—"

"No, you listen," he said, interrupting because he had nothing else to lose. He didn't have a name for who he was, he didn't have a home, and he didn't have a Steve.

Vladimir looked at him full on, getting to his feet in way of warning.

"I need two things, and then we can go on."

"What are they?"

"Steve Rogers," he said, and he was barely surprised at the recognition on Vladimir's face. "You keep him safe. No matter what."

"This we can do."

"And then move me somewhere else. I can't stay in this fucking city a moment longer."

Vladimir smiled and strode around his desk, holding out his hand. "This will be a good partnership, James."

James took it, and out of the two of them, he wasn't really sure who was shaking hands with the devil.


End file.
